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Victoria shook her head. “Never heard of him. But I have something for you.” She walked to a curio cabinet, in a corner of the room, and returned with a manila envelope, which she gave to Amanda.
She moved it over in her hands. “What is this?”
“You might have noticed my car in the driveway on your way to the door? The logo on the door for my photography studio?”
“I did,” Amanda said.
“My passion for photography dates back to my teenage years. That night at Taps and Cocktails, I took a lot of candid shots. Every one I took is in there.” She nudged her head toward the envelope.
Amanda withdrew a stack of prints. “How many are there?”
“Forty-three.”
“This is terrific, Naomi.” Amanda shuffled through the top few photos, letting Trent see them too. Unfortunately, many were shadowed, dark, and out of focus.
“If you’d forgive me, but I didn’t know all that much about flash and angles—even in my early twenties. I hope they’ll still prove useful.”
“It all helps. Thank you.” Amanda put the pictures back into the envelope.
“Please just find out who did this to her. Naomi may have been a lot of things, but she didn’t deserve to be murdered. Same for that author. I wished I had spoken to— Oh. I’m just putting this all together. I’m not sure how I didn’t before now. I just thought Naomi’s case was reopened, but there’s more to it, isn’t there? Felicity Kelley was asking about Naomi. Now she’s been murdered. Then you two are at my door…” Victoria’s glassy eyes met Amanda’s gaze. “Do you suspect the person who killed Naomi also killed that author?”
Again, Amanda thought it was interesting how the mind worked and processed information—not everything clicked together at once. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Please let me know if you do. I’d love some closure.”
Amanda dipped her head, and she and Trent saw themselves out. This had certainly been a worthwhile stop. They had the name Wendell Barrett and a potential goldmine in the photographs. While many weren’t in focus, a close examination might yield a familiar face. And just that spark of possibility filled Amanda with the fuel she needed to keep going.
FORTY
The home of Wendell Barrett was Amanda and Trent’s next stop. This was now territory that Felicity Kelley hadn’t traveled. At least, she hadn’t found out about him from Victoria Eaton and Felicity’s phone records didn’t connect her to him. It was going on four forty-five by the time they were pulling down his street. She had called Logan to touch base but couldn’t provide an ETA on when she’d be home. It felt like they were on the verge of solving all three murders.
“I understand,” Logan said. “You’re on a case.”
Three, technically. “You sure you understand?” She wouldn’t normally push the matter. It must have been guilt over leaving him with Zoe so much. Though he knew he was signing on to be a father figure before he had moved in. They’d had a serious talk where she’d laid it all out—how she worked unpredictable hours and she’d expect him to watch Zoe if he could. He’d gladly accepted those terms.
“All right, saying that I understand is pushing it a bit,” he said, his smile traveling in his voice across the line. “But it is what it is. You’re putting bad guys away, and Zoe and I couldn’t be any prouder of you.”
“Thanks. I love you.”
“And we love you.”
After ending the call, she put her phone away as Trent was parking in the driveway of number 238, Wendell’s house.
They knocked several times and were about to leave when the door opened.
“Yeah?” A man in his late thirties squinted in the afternoon sunlight. His eyes were puffy, and the tip of his nose was red.
“Wendell Barrett?” Trent asked him.
“That’s me.”
Trent flashed his badge. “We’re Detectives Stenson and Steele, and we have some questions about Naomi Chapman.”
“What about her?”
The fact they didn’t need to jog his memory after fifteen years was noteworthy. Then again, even if he was innocent, how many people could say they knew someone who had been murdered? “It might be best if we came inside for this conversation.” She could already feel the eyes of nosy neighbors on them.
“You don’t want to do—” He sneezed and held up a finger while he fished a tissue from the pocket of his jogging pants.
